


The Dream

by Deannie



Category: The X-Files
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 1995-06-20
Updated: 1995-06-20
Packaged: 2018-01-01 23:47:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,044
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1050022
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Deannie/pseuds/Deannie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A series of terrifying nightmares, inexplicably linked to an old house, lead to an apparent suicide attempt by one of Scully's closest friends. Could Mulder and Scully's investigation push Scully over the edge as well?</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Dream

**Author's Note:**

> Originally published 20 June 1995

Sal Menschner awoke screaming--again. She rose on unsteady legs and walked to the bathroom whose light was always on. As she splashed cold water on her face, she tried to glean more details from her dream. She was a firm believer in the extraordinary powers of the human mind--regardless of what her friends and the rest of the medical community might say--and she knew that her mind was trying very hard to tell her something. She just couldn't remember enough details to figure out exactly what that something was.

The gist of the message, however, was frighteningly clear--get out of this house, or you're going to get hurt. These nightmares, now almost debilitating in their intensity, had begun two weeks ago--the first night she had slept in the old cracker box house. At first, they had been vague, and only slightly unsettling. Now they had reached such intensity that she had not had a real night's sleep in over a week.

She stared for a moment at her face in the mirror; straight dark hair, frightened blue eyes with bags big enough for a week in Vegas--twenty-eight, going on eighty. _God, I need a cigarette._

* * *

Stepping out onto the covered deck was like a reprieve. She took a deep drag on her cigarette and chuckled ruefully. _Pretty stupid for an FBI agent to be intimidated by an old house._ She couldn't deny it, though. Something in this house terrified her.

Her being there was a favor for a friend. John Colton had been temporarily reassigned to a publishing house in Scotland. It would only be a year, and he had never even considered selling the circa 1940s house he had bought only three years previous. Sal had been ready to move out of her little apartment in Alexandria, anyway, and the idea of her acting as caretaker for the three bedroom had seemed like a perfect solution to them both.

Now, Sal wasn't so sure.

She sighed, lighting her third cigarette. Maybe she should just move out. John wouldn't mind if she just looked in on the place. She was only living there because it saved him the worry, and her the rent. She blew smoke out furiously. Damn it, she would not be intimidated by this place! It was just a house. It wasn't like it was Amityville or something. 

Maybe she was just blowing things out of proportion. It was an old house. It made all kinds of strange noises, creaking and the like. She had probably just let her mind run away with her. If she looked at it sensibly, there was probably nothing to it.

An idea struck her. Get someone else to stay with her for a weekend. If she was the only one with bad dreams, she could always chalk it up to an over-active imagination and too many Stephen King novels. If not... 

Well, that wasn't going to happen. It was all in her mind.

She ground the third cigarette out, and started to head back into the house. She stopped, willing her hands to stop shaking. _Just another cigarette. I just need to calm down a little._ She cursed silently, lighting up again.

 _Dana,_ she thought suddenly. _If anyone can prove that this is no more than a figment of my imagination, Dana can._

* * *

"Mulder, that's ridiculous!" Dana Scully all but threw her coat at its hook, turning to face her partner. "How can you even suggest that?"

"Scully, it's medically documented," her partner replied, pulling his own jacket off, and rolling up his shirt sleeves. "Any number of psychiatrists and psychologists--"

"You being one!" she attacked, jabbing a finger at him from across the room.

"--Will tell you that they've encountered it in hypno-regressive therapy," he concluded, ignoring the attack. He sighed as he sat down. Sometimes Scully's skepticism was downright exhausting.

Scully leaned forward, her voice taking on that talking-him-down-from-the-edge tone she reserved for Mulder's most hare-brained theories. "Mulder, Deborah Renlund was severely abused--in _this_ lifetime. Her mental state has more to do with that than any past life experiences." The last three words dripped with sarcasm.

Mulder rose to the fight. This time, he knew he was right. "Scully, the murders were all committed by a left-handed person."

"Or a right-handed person holding the knife in her left hand." She sniffed skeptically. " _I_ could slit someone's throat with my left hand."

"But, Scully--" he began, only to be cut off by the startlingly loud ringing of Scully's phone. She held up her hand angrily and answered it. "Scully."

"Hi, Dana," the youthful voice on the other end replied. A frown entered the tone. "Are you okay?"

"Sure, Sal," Scully replied, a cold glare passing between her and her partner. "Mulder and I were just swapping past life stories."

"Great," Sal said dryly. "I hope his past ones are more exciting than his present. Same goes for you, actually."

"After that, this had better be good, Sal."

Sal smiled over the line. "I wanted to know if you'd like to stay over for the weekend. I'm staying at John Colton's while he's away in Scotland." Her voice became persuasive. "It's far from town--and Mulder."

Scully smiled. "You've sold me on it."

Sal breathed a silent sigh of relief. "I'll have dinner on the table at seven."

* * *

Dana Scully stared at the smoke from her friend's cigarette for a full minute. "What's the problem, Sal?"

"Hmm?" Sal asked innocently, putting down the cigarette only long enough to take a sip of her scotch. "What do you mean?"

Dana glanced significantly at the congregation of cigarette butts in the ashtray. "You haven't smoked this much since your final dissertation at JH." She leaned forward. "What's going on?"

"Nothing so dire as Johns Hopkins," she laughed, a little uncertainly. She blew smoke. "It's kind of stupid. I'd kind of be embarrassed to say something, especially to you, but..."

"Why especially to me?"

Sal smiled apologetically, pushing her mass of brown hair away from her face. "Well, you *do* have to work with Mulder everyday..."

Dana rolled her eyes. "Just tell me it has nothing to do with past lives." That fight had been tabled until Monday.

"No," Sal said positively. Then, with a glint in her eye, "at least, I don't _think_ so." They both laughed--a welcome sound in a house that, for Sal, held so much terror.

"So what is it?"

Sal lit up another. "I've been having... really bad dreams. Two whole weeks now." She took a deep drag, holding it too long and letting the smoke explode from her mouth and nose. "It has something to do with this house, I just know it."

"What do you mean?" Dana sounded as skeptical as Sal had hoped she would.

"Well, ever since I moved in here, these dreams have just been unbearable. Threatening."

"Have you had them before now. Ever?"

Sal shook her head.

"Maybe it's just being in a new house," Dana suggested reasonably. "You've been living in apartments or at your dad's your whole life. Being in a house alone can tend to freak you out."

Sal nodded. "I know. I thought of all of that, myself. It's just that..." She took a drag. "This house has something _in_ it."

Dana was silent, looking at her friend. She had known Sal since the younger woman had gone through preliminary recruiting in the pathology lab at Quantico three years previously. Scully had been one of the pathologists they set up for the ambitious young girl to interview, and the two overachieving women had struck up a quick and lasting friendship. 

An amazingly talented student, Sal had graduated high school at sixteen, and had finished her residency at twenty-six. She had opted, like Dana herself, to go straight into the FBI, and had turned a number of heads with her abilities.

Dana knew that many people at Quantico had credited Sal's connections more than her intellect, but Dana didn't care who Sal's godfather was, the young woman was a fine pathologist.

Unfortunately, she was also what Mulder called, with great affection, "a believer." Dana herself was more likely to wince at the term. Still, Sal had always managed to keep that belief in check, had managed not to let it color her thinking too much. Until now, apparently.

"Is that why you wanted me to come up here this weekend?"

"Yeah," Sal looked askance at her. "Look, Dana, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to mislead you or anything. I mean, we can have a good time this weekend, it'll get you out of the city for a while, and, most importantly, you can prove to me what an ass I'm being."

* * *

It was twelve-thirty before the movie ended, and one-thirty before they finally turned in. The guest room sported a gorgeous canopy bed, set off by old shaker dressers and a huge Edwardian wardrobe. As Dana got ready for bed, she thought about Sal's dreams. They were certainly no more than a manifestation of her friend's nervousness in the new house. Sal's over-active imagination had just blown them up into something more than that.

Dana sighed, brushing her hair before the dresser mirror. At least Sal could see that she had let these whims get out of hand. A few days of company in the old house would be enough to calm her fears.

* * *

Dana sat bolt upright, shaking off the remnants of the nightmare and glancing at the clock. Three-thirty. She jumped out of bed, hurrying toward Sal's room. By the time she got there, Sal had stopped screaming.

"Sal?" She said quietly, not wanting to surprise the terrified woman as she slid onto the bed. Dana reached out her hands toward her, almost gasping at the fear-strengthened grip which met them. "Sal, honey, it's okay. It's all right."

Sal took a moment to realize that her friend was there, to realize that she was back in reality. She sat up straighter, loosening her grip on Dana's wrists. She smiled almost ruefully. "This is getting ridiculous."  
"Was it the same dream?" Dana had moved in next to her, supporting the younger woman's clearly exhausted frame.

"Yeah. Everything was just the same. The tea, the baseball bat..." She trailed off as she felt Dana stiffen next to her. "What?"

"You were in the kitchen, making tea. There was a noise? Like the front door squeaking?"

"Yeah." Sal turned to face her. Dana was bone white.

"There was a man. On the stairs?"

"You had the same dream?"

Dana just nodded wordlessly.

* * *

"Hey, Scully." Mulder barely glanced up from the file he was working on. Scully walked quietly behind him, reading over his shoulder. She smiled. "You're collecting quite a file of those."

He smiled as well, leaning back as she walked around him to her own desk. "Yeah, I'm thinking about starting up a new division: Kennedy Capitol Hill Abductions. Think Skinner will go for it?"

Scully just smiled in return, not up to her usual quipping. It was a shame really, she thought tiredly. This subject was just rife with possibilities: six women in the past year claimed to have been abducted on Capitol Hill in the early morning hours. As far as Scully was concerned, Ted Kennedy was as good a suspect as any.

Mulder noticed the missing comeback. "Are you all right?"

"Yeah," she sighed, then straightened up and put more punch behind it. "Yeah, I'm fine."

He just gave her That Look. That Look had opened her mouth more than once, caused her to say things she really didn't want him to know. This time, however, That Look fell flat. "Really, Mulder. It's fine. I just... had a bad couple of nights."

Uncharacteristically, he let that comment go unscathed. Something was bothering her, something she didn't feel was any of his business. He had no illusions about their relationship: It had developed from a rivalry to nearly a friendship in the year that they had worked together. It was warm, caring--if a little cantankerous--almost impossibly close at times--but it was not so completely open that they didn't have any secrets. This was obviously going to be one of hers. So be it.

"I have an appointment at Cullview Sanitarium, to interview Deb Renlund," he said, cocky, bright, very much changing the subject.

She glared at him again. "I'm not going to get through two hours in this day without you starting up on that, am I?"

He smiled, Cheshire Cat in full grin. "I'm right, Scully."

She sighed, and braced herself for another of those days.

* * *

Scully was content to let Mulder go off to the sanitarium by himself, quipping lamely that he might want to have himself checked out while he was there. That Look still threatened, and she really did not want to bring these dreams up with him. It wasn't as if it were a case. This was private, and that was all there was to say about it.

She called Sal after lunch.

"Checking up on me, huh?" Sal asked, mock-serious. "God, I must really be looking like a basketcase these days. Both Dad and The Terror called this morning--'Just to see how you're doing, honey.' "

Scully smiled. "Don't call him that. He might be listening in, and you never know what 'The Terror's' response might be."

"Oh come on, Dana. I have my little godfather wrapped around my finger. He'd do anything for his little May." She said it with all the manipulative pride of a five-year-old. Scully had to admit, though, that she was probably right. The man loved Sal like his own daughter.

"Anyway, Dana. I'm fine--just in case you were going to ask. I'm handling things nicely." That last sounded a little unbelievable. Sal lowered her voice. "I _would_ like you to do me a favor, though."

"Sure, anything."

"Can you find out anything about this house? You know, former owners, any catastrophes, that sort of thing?"

Scully shrugged. "I'll find out what I can, Sal. I'm not sure it's going to help your problem, though." She took a deep breath. "Look, Sal. Why don't you come stay at my place for a few days. Just give yourself a chance to get some decent rest, and maybe things will look better."

"I thought about it, Dana, honestly, I did." Sal hesitated. "But I think I've almost got it figured out. If I stick with it a few more days, I just know I can find out what happened."  
Scully expressed her doubts.

"Duly noted, Dana," Sal returned impishly. "Look, I gotta go." She smiled over the line. "Say hi to The Terror when you see him."

* * *

Sal sighed deeply as she set the kettle on. These nightmares were only getting worse. She had thought she was on to something, that there was some thread here she could take hold of, following it to the real story. But there was no thread. She sighed again. She would call Dana in the morning, take her up on the offer of a bed for a few days, and look for another apartment. John was just going to have to understand.

She gazed around the dark room, lit only by the filtered light of a half moon. It was old-fashioned; jams in the glass-fronted cupboard, an ancient toaster on the countertop. Homey. She shuddered. Terrifying.

She realized suddenly that she had been staring at her mug for a full minute while the kettle whistle blew. She shook herself slightly, and grabbed the kettle, filling the mug, and watching the dark of the tea slowly take over the clear water. 

That was when she heard the noise.

She was sure she had locked the front door--had become almost pathological about it over the past few weeks--but there it was, creaking. She slid carefully to the closet, opening it silently, and reaching for the Louisville Slugger she kept there. Her gun, unloaded and safe in its box by her bed, was far too far away.

She listened closely, glad she hadn't needed the lights on her way down. The intruder seemed to be headed through the living room, on the other side of the stairs. She could probably get to the phone before he got to her, and if not, well, that was what the bat was for. She started to move, inching her way along silently.

He caught her as she reached the phone.

* * *

Sal woke screaming, clutching at the bat she didn't have, swinging at an assailant no longer there. She shook herself, trying to stop crying. The nightmares were getting worse, now. She couldn't put up with too many more. And they weren't telling her anything new.

She rose, weaker than she had been before, and walked toward the bathroom. She was too tired, now. The more she tried to find the answer, the less energy she was likely to have to deal with it. She noticed suddenly that she had fallen to her knees, and looked stupidly down at herself. That was when she saw the blood.

That was when she started to scream in earnest.

* * *

Scully strode into the office, ready for almost anything Mulder could throw at her. She had finally got a decent night's sleep, had been up for an early run, and had had enough time to stop by her favorite diner for breakfast. He could not possibly throw her off today.

She looked over at him, and realized that she had probably spoken too soon. He sat there, grinning, a tape recorder before him. Gesturing for her to sit, he pressed play.

"What is your name?" his voice, filtered through the grate, asked.

"Lisabeth Redmond." That was Deb Renlund. Slightly higher pitch, more childlike, but definitely the suspect in the murders of five black male prostitutes.

"And how old are you, Lisabeth."

"Ten."

"What year is it?"

"Eighteen hundret and fitty-three."

Scully ignored Mulder's triumphant smile. The questioning continued.

"Where do you live?"

"Calvin County, Illinois. Daddy has a big, big ranch, and we have fifteen slaves. Oh," she said, vaguely embarrassed. "I'm not supposed to call 'em slaves. We ain't allowed to have slaves anymore, Daddy says."

Mulder pressed stop. "Lisabeth Redmond was sexually abused by her father and six of his male servants repeatedly over a five year period, starting when her mother had died when Lisabeth was eight. When she was thirty-one, while still living in her father's house, she killed everyone in the house--twenty-one men and women in total." He leaned forward, vindicated. "She slit their throats."

"And she was left-handed, I'll bet," Scully returned.

"Of course," he agreed, leaning back.

She stood up, reaching for a file. "If you say 'I told you so,' I'll shoot you."

He smiled. "Are you saying you believe me?"

"Not at all. I don't have to. You're the one who has to write it up and explain it to Skinner." She reached for the phone, letting him have his little moment of glory. They were few and far between these days. "Hello... Oh, hi, Gary.... Fine... Yeah, look, is Sal in yet." She stood still, the color draining from her face. Mulder straightened up in his chair. "When? ...Okay ...Okay, Georgetown--not Quantico?" Mulder stood now, trying to follow one end of the conversation. "I see... Yeah, thanks, Gary... I will... Bye."

"What?" Mulder asked, as Scully sat back carefully in the chair behind her.

She looked up at him. "Sal Menschner slit her wrists last night."

* * *

Scully was striding purposefully toward the admissions desk on Georgetown's fifth floor, when her progress was impeded. A tall, dark-haired, dark-eyed man grabbed her from behind, lifting her off her feet, bringing her ear up to reach his lips. His voice was soft, Cajun, his tone warm. "Hey, sexy FBI agent," he whispered. "What you doing, little hospital like this?"

A slight stiffening on her part was all it took for him to let her go. She turned to face him, giving Mulder an embarrassed smile for her old friend's excesses as she came around. She smiled gently up at the big man. He was spare, and even taller than Mulder. The agent began to wonder if Scully had always had a thing for taller men.

"Hi Johnny," she said warmly. "Since when are you working here?"

"I'm not, Quincy," he replied, the Cajun accent fading slightly. "Mark Garibaldi called me in to take a look at one of his strange cases." He smiled wryly.

That was when he noticed Mulder looking on. He raked the agent with almost comically jealous eyes, his Cajun accent coming back full force. "Who's dat, Quincy?"

Scully rolled her eyes impatiently at his jealousy. "Another man who specializes in strange cases. Dr. Johnny Bottoms, meet Special Agent Fox Mulder, my partner. Mulder, Johnny." She watched Johnny shake Mulder's hand warily, Mulder being kind enough not to smile at the act. "So," she continued. "What's your strange case this time?"

He gestured for her to walk next to him, effectively shutting Mulder out. "It's an apparent suicide attempt, but Mark, he look at the wounds, and he just don't think so. So he call me."  
Scully had brought them to a stop, a sick look in her eyes. "Sal Menschner?"

Johnny looked at her for a moment, a slow smile spreading over his face. "I always told you you got the luck, Quincy. How come you never believe me?" He sobered slightly. "She a friend of yours?"  
Scully nodded, her mouth tight, lips white around the edges.

Johnny took her arm, gesturing toward a conference room nearby. "Maybe we talk first before we see her."

* * *

Scully still couldn't believe what she was being shown. "This cannot have happened, Johnny. She doesn't fit the profile."

"Come on, Scully," Mulder chipped in, presenting her with that unbelievable photograph again. It showed Sal's wrist, roughly, deeply cut, the white of her _untouched_ tendons shining just below the surface. "Who's to say what the profile for this is, anyway. You admit she's been plagued by terrifying dreams."

"Yes," she replied calmly. "But stigmata is usually a manifestation of a deeper psychological trauma. Abuse, assault, _something._ It is _not_ brought on by a few bad dreams."

"Hysterically induced hemorrhage is not necessarily a sign of psychosis, Quince." Johnny had dropped his thick accent, leaving only traces of his upbringing in the woods of Louisiana. "I've seen it in completely sane individuals."

"You said yourself that she was all right yesterday," Mulder agreed. "She was joking, right?"

Scully looked up at both of them. Two believers too many. She stood up suddenly. "I'm going to go talk to Sal. See what she has to say."

* * *

Sal Menschner sat propped up on pillows, her eyes closed, her father hovering nearby. "Hello, Mr. Menschner," Scully said quietly as they entered.

The tall, balding ex-marine rose carefully, striding across the room. "Hi, Dana," he said warmly. "Mulder."

"This is Dr. John Bottoms. He's taking Sal's case," Scully volunteered, moving so the older man could shake Johnny's hand.

Sal's eyes fluttered open, and it took her a moment to focus on the group across the room. "Dana, Fox, come over here and stop whispering about me." Her voice was pitifully weak and her normally pink skin was pale.

Scully introduced Johnny, who looked to Mulder, then back to Sal. "How come she get to call you Fox, when you own partner has to call you Mulder?" he asked, throwing on the accent, apparently at a whim.

Mulder smiled fondly down at the young woman. "With a name like Salome, she's got me beat in the weird name department." His smile widened. "She deserves it."

Sal looked up at her father, slightly pleading. The older man cleared his throat. "I'm going to go get some coffee." He smoothed down his daughter's hair, infinitely gentle for such a big man. "I'll be back in a few minutes, May."

She smiled up at him appreciatively. "Thank you, Daddy." She remembered something suddenly. "Did you call him?"

Her father turned back from the door. "He's in a meeting this morning, but he'll come by this afternoon."

Scully looked questioningly at Sal, who shrugged impishly. "I have to bleed The Terror for all he's worth on this one." She shivered suddenly at her own choice of words, and looked pleadingly at Scully.  
"Dana, I didn't try to kill myself. Honestly." She took a deep shuddering breath, and went on. "I had the dream again. I can almost remember all of it now. You remember the creaking? How the door sounded when it opened?" Scully nodded, ignoring Mulder's startled glance.

"I could have sworn I was down there," Sal continued, closing her eyes, trying to recapture the dream. "This time I was me, you know. Not her. And I went downstairs to make some tea. I know I locked that door, Dana," she said vehemently, daring them all to contradict her. "I _always_ lock it."

Scully smoothed her friend's hair down, nodding belief. "What happened then?"

"The dream," Sal said simply, answering everything in two words.

Scully stood back slightly, her eyes kindly, but firmly, asking for more. "What then?"

"He got me on the stairs, and then..." she trailed off uncertainly. "I don't know, but I woke up." She stared down at her wrists; the bandages, the IV at her elbow. She looked up into her friend's eyes. "I didn't do it, Dana. I woke up, and I was bleeding." She became suddenly fearful. "Don't think I would do this to myself, Dana, please. I wouldn't do this to myself!"

Scully ran her hand comfortingly through Sal's thick brown hair. "It's all right, Sal. It's okay." She looked up at Mulder and Johnny, who were both staring speculatively at her. "We believe you," she almost whispered, as Sal, exhausted, fell off to sleep again.

* * *

"'Quincy'?" Mulder asked, a smile in his voice, as they walked out to the car.

Scully didn't look back at him. "He thought pathology was a strange job for a woman. He thought I should have been a pediatrician." She neglected to mention that he also thought she should have been his wife. He had proposed to five girls that she knew of--all in one semester, surprisingly enough.

"What was all that about with Sal?" Mulder asked as they got into the car and headed back to the office. "She acted like you knew all about the dream." He headed off the easy explanation. "Not like she'd told you, but like you had had it."

"I did," she said quietly.

Mulder glanced over, keeping his eyes mostly on the traffic ahead, but giving her enough of That Look to make her sigh and start the story.

"Sal invited me over this weekend because she wanted to have someone there when she had the dreams. She was trying to convince herself that they were just figments of her imagination." Scully looked down at her own hands. "The trouble is, maybe they weren't."

"Did she tell you anything about the dream beforehand?" It was not unusual for a person to incorporate someone else's fantasies into their own.

Scully shook her head. "She never told me about the dream, Mulder. I mean, she told me about _having_ the dream, but never any specifics." She shuddered, annoyed suddenly to be so affected by the memory. "We woke up at the same time. She was screaming, and when I went to check on her, she started talking about it." She raised her eyes to meet his, her natural disbelief warring with the fear that dream had created in her. "We could fill in each other's blanks, Mulder. It was _exactly_ the same dream."

Mulder stopped at the light, turning in his seat to face her. "What was the dream about?"

She sighed, annoyed. "It's really just a fragment of a dream." She shook her head. "I _know_ something more happened."

Mulder puzzled at her phrasing. "What do you mean, 'something more happened?' "

"She's in the kitchen, making tea," she said, not answering him--perhaps not even hearing the question. "She hears a noise, like the front door is creaking open, grabs a bat..." Her forehead crinkled. "It's kind of hazy after that, but there's a man on the stairs..." she trailed off uncertainly, tried again. "She struggles with this man on the stairs..."

She looked up, angry. "I just can't seem to get past that point."

"The dream never continues?"

She shook her head. "It's like, at that point, whatever happened next is so painful, I wake up before I can find it out."

He started through the intersection, silently mulling over her story. Then, suddenly, he asked, "Why are you so sure something else happened there?"

She wasn't thinking, wasn't looking for the question, and she answered it without her usual filter of scientific disbelief. "I don't know. I just think that something happened in that house. Something more than Sal and I remember."

When she realized what she had said, she was quiet for a long time.

* * *

Mulder looked up, staring mutely at the clock for a moment before the time registered. He looked over at Scully, slumped in front of her computer, staring at screen after screen of police reports. "Scully?"  
She didn't hear him.

He walked quietly around her, reaching forward to switch off her monitor. She jerked back, looking up, confused.

"It's eight-fifteen, Scully," he said gently. "Time to go home."

She nodded, rose, reaching for her coat.

"Did you find anything?"

"No," she said tiredly, rubbing at her eyes. "No. The police reports are sorted by year, not address, and that database is so antiquated, I can't run any kind of lateral search. I'm only at 1952." She sighed. "This is going to take forever."

He almost didn't say it. He knew she would never go for it, knew she would think it was just another of his hare-brained schemes, but it _was_ a way of getting more information. "There's another possibility."  
"What?" she asked, immediately wary.

"Dream recall," he said quietly, holding her eyes.

"Hypnosis?" she asked, teasing.

He shook his head. "Not exactly. It's a therapy used for post traumatic stress disorder, mostly. It involves letting the patient get into the dream, then waking them at intervals to catalogue their experiences."

She shook her head. "Sal can't go through that, Mulder. She's lucky she's still alive."

He ushered her out the door. "I wasn't talking about Sal."

* * *

Scully turned the key, pushing the door open with a shudder.

"You okay, Scully?"

She nodded. The house was even more uncomfortable now, empty, with the lights out. She flipped on the entryway lamp. "It's just a little..."

"Spooky?" he finished with a smile.

She didn't return it. 

He was sorry now that he had suggested this. The dream was obviously bothering her more than she was willing to admit, and she had already seen what could happen. Mulder was about to ask if she wanted to call this off when she shook her head irritably and headed for the kitchen.

"This is where the dream starts." She gestured to the stove, where Sal's kettle sat. "The woman is making tea, when she hears a noise by the door." She followed her own finger around to the hallway where Mulder stood. 

"It isn't you in the dream?"

She shook her head again. "No. I know what's going on, I see it from her point of view, but it isn't me."

He nodded. Hopefully, that detachment would make the regression easier.

She walked him through it, pulling an imaginary bat from the closet just off the kitchen, and leading him to the stairs. There, she stopped. "That's all. I always woke up after he caught her here."

She squared her shoulders, shaking off the unease that recounting the dream had raised in her. "Should we get started?"

He hesitated. "Scully." He stopped, started again. "Maybe we can try something else first. If I try hypnotism, we might get just as much."

Her eyes hardened as she led the way to the guest bedroom she had used that weekend. "Maybe. But you think this is a better way, don't you?"

He shrugged. "More thorough, yes, but..."

She turned back toward him, a half smile tentative on her lips. "Mulder, I'm okay with it." She sighed sadly. "I want to find out as much as I can. Sal needs to know."

* * *

"I'm going to stay right here, Scully," Mulder said quietly, watching Scully fidget slightly, lying on top of the comforter, fully clothed. It was disconcerting to see his usually unflappable partner so unsettled, and he felt the need to reassure her. "Once you start into REM, I'll wake you after fifteen minutes, and we'll see what you can remember."

She nodded warily, trying to relax as she settled back. She was sure that between her disturbingly irrational fear of this house and Mulder hovering next to the bed, she would never get to sleep.  
The very fact that he was there, however, and the almost rational plan he had outlined, gave her enough peace of mind to drop into a fitful doze, and from there to a deeper sleep...

* * *

Three hours later, she woke screaming.

Mulder sat bolt upright, shaking off sleep and moving to her side. She glared fiercely at him in the moon's half-light, tears streaming down her face. She sat forward, trying desperately to catch her breath.

Mulder sat at her side, supporting her. He couldn't believe he had fallen asleep! He rubbed at her back, trying to calm her down, as she struggled to master her lungs. After a terrifying minute, she took two deep, shuddering breaths and settled her breathing into a rapid, but acceptably stable, rhythm.

She pushed him away, balling up her fists and driving them punishingly into his chest. Her voice was suddenly high, hysterical. "You lied! You lied to me!"

He grabbed her arms just below the wrists, feeling the sweat on her skin, the racing pulse just below. She was like a totally different person. Not his partner at all.

"I'm sorry," he said softly, trying to sound calmer than he felt. "I'm sorry, Scully."

She pulled her arms away suddenly, and, just as suddenly, collapsed against him, sobbing. He held her carefully, afraid she would break, regardless of the deathgrip she now had on his arm. "I'm sorry," he said again, smoothing her hair, damning himself for ever thinking this up.

She just let herself be held, let the panic drain away. After a few minutes, she pulled away, her breathing steady. He hovered for a moment, and she sat up irritably. "Can you get me a glass of water?"  
She vaguely saw him nod in the darkened room, saw him stride out, heading for the stairs. Scully pushed her hair back, astounded to be bathed in sweat. She turned on the light...

...And a sound came out of her, so high, so reedy, so un-Scully, that Mulder was at the door in a second.

"Jesus, Scully!"

She was bleeding.

There was blood everywhere, in fact. On the sheets, on his chest, his sleeves, his hands. Everywhere her wrists had touched. He ran for bandages, towels, anything he could find.

* * *

After that first outburst, Scully just stared at her arms, waiting for her doctor side to kick in. The cuts were deep, serious. She made a fist, saw the blood speed slightly, but not at all the way it would have if she'd burst a vein. She could barely see the tendons--the cuts weren't deep enough. Whatever had made them, these wounds were not life-threatening. Provided Mulder got back with the bandages. "And water, Mulder!" she called, her voice a little too shrill for her own taste. "Cold water."

He was in the door before she finished, a basin of water in one hand, a load of towels over his other arm. He slowed slightly as he saw her face: calm, composed. The doctor was back.

* * *

She watched him clean the wounds: gentle, thorough, but pretty much scared to death. She looked around at the sheets. She had lost a lot of blood. Maybe too much, but she didn't feel like it. She looked down at her wrists again, looked over to the towels he had brought.

She gestured to one threadbare old bathsheet. "Can you tear that into strips?" Her voice seemed stronger now, and she tried to keep it light. He was a basketcase, and it amused her suddenly, that even when she was the victim, a doctor was always a doctor.

"Should I call the paramedics?" he asked, his voice small.

"I don't think so," she said firmly, daring him to argue. She preferred to keep this secret if she could. _She_ could barely believe the evidence before her, and she doubted anyone else would.

"I hate to say it," she said, almost too quietly. "But it looks like you were right."

He just looked at her questioningly as she took a strip of the towel from him and started trying to bind up the wounds.

She answered his look with a pale smile, gesturing to her wrists as she fumbled with the makeshift bandage. "Can you do this please?" she asked, muttering to herself that she must have lost more blood than she thought.

Mulder obviously heard her, watching her face as he dressed the wounds. "You should go to the hospital."

She shook her head. She _should_ go, but she wouldn't. "Just take me home, Mulder."

* * *

Scully barely made it to her bed, pausing only briefly for Mulder to help her out of her coat before she slipped, shivering, under the covers. She was too exhausted even to thank him as she fell off to sleep.  
Mulder watched her chest rise and fall rhythmically for a few minutes before he walked to the kitchen to brew some coffee. He thought about what to do now, as the coffeemaker gurgled quietly. She should be in the hospital. She should at least have stitches.

He sat down abruptly, letting his hands just shake for a moment. He had screwed up. He should have known that what could happen to one woman could happen to another, but somehow, he had never thought that Scully would succumb to something like that. Somehow she seemed too solid.

He poured a cup of coffee and headed back to keep watch.

* * *

She woke just after dawn, her wrists throbbing. She turned over, not at all surprised to see Mulder standing guard. She almost smiled. He wouldn't sleep for a week. His punishment for a three hour nap. "Hi," she said quietly.

He smiled tiredly. "Hi. How are you feeling?"

She sat up carefully, frowning. "Like I need a bath." She looked down at her ruined suit. "And a change of clothes."

He nodded and helped her to the bathroom. By the time she was done, he had a bowl of soup on the table for her. "I'll go call Rose. Tell her neither of us is coming in today."

Scully shook her head, splattering his stained shirt with her soaked hair. "Go on in. I want to know if there's anything in those police reports."

Mulder looked down at her for a minute.

"I'm fine, Mulder. Really." She sat down to the soup, blowing on it carefully before spooning some into her mouth. "Go home. Get changed." She looked up at him, trying to sound more confident than she felt. "I'll go straight back to sleep. I promise."

He argued with her for a time, finally convinced when she blurted out that his being there would only drive her crazy. He looked back once more as he left. "Call me. ...If you need _anything,_ call me."

She sat there in the silence after he drove off, staring out the window. She looked down at her hands, at the brown strips of towel at her wrists, ruined by her shower. She went to her medicine cabinet, trying not to shake as she pulled off the tattered bath sheet and replaced it with fresh gauze. It was too much for her, suddenly, and she let herself just sit and stare for a few minutes, letting everything from the night before float around in her mind.

She sighed, sitting down on the couch, switching on the television. She would never get back to sleep now, afraid of whatever her mind might come up with. Nothing on the screen before her registered, as her mind kept replaying that dream.

* * *

Mulder glanced up at the clock. He had been looking through these police reports all morning, and he was anxious to get back and check on Scully. He jumped as the phone rang with an internal call.

"Mulder."

Skinner's assistant spoke coolly over the line. "Assistant Director Skinner would like to see you and Agent Scully immediately."

"Thank you."

* * *

Skinner stood as Mulder walked in, looking behind the younger man as he closed the door. "Where's Agent Scully."

"Home sick, sir."

Skinner nodded and absently gestured for Mulder to sit. The younger man tried to figure out whether Skinner was mad, or just preoccupied.

"I understand you and Scully visited Salome Menschner yesterday at Georgetown?"

"Yes, sir." Mulder wondered how Skinner had known about that.

The AD turned his back on his agent. Staring out at the traffic on the street below, he started, conversationally. "How did she seem to you?"

Mulder shrugged. "As well as could be expected, sir. She was pretty shaken up, but..."

Skinner turned back. "Do you believe her story? About the dream?"

Mulder took a moment before answering. When he did, he met Skinner's gaze calmly. "Yes sir." He straightened up slightly. "May I ask, sir, why you're interested in this case?"

It was Skinner's turn to shrug. "She's one of ours, Agent Mulder."

"Yes, sir," Mulder agreed. "But..."

"She's also my goddaughter," Skinner said quietly.

Mulder stopped. He had known Sal for a year, now, and she had never said anything. Maybe she didn't want him to wonder how she had advanced so quickly. "I never knew that, sir."

Skinner smiled, almost fondly. "May doesn't let it slip to many people. I think Scully knows." He sat down, eye to eye with the younger man. "She told me you and Scully were trying to find out something about that house." He glowered doubtfully. "She thinks it's haunted."

Mulder took a deep breath. "We haven't really found out anything yet, sir. But the dreams don't seem to be an isolated incident." He hesitated. "Agent Scully experienced the same dreams while staying with Sal in that house."

Skinner's eyes narrowed. Mulder was obviously holding back. "What happened?"

Mulder just sat for a moment. He didn't think he had the right to tell Skinner about this. He knew full well why Scully wouldn't go to the hospital, knew she wouldn't want to have to explain it all. Especially not to Skinner. He looked up. "Sir, I'm not sure I can tell you."

Skinner exploded. Mulder had known he would, but there was really no other alternative. "Agent Mulder, I am your commanding officer," Skinner stated coldly, falling back on marine corps jargon. "Any information you have regarding this case is _mine._ "

"But sir," Mulder contended, "this isn't an official investigation."

Skinner threw an assignment form across the table. "It is now."

Mulder stood his ground. "Sir, if you can just give me a moment." He gestured to the phone.

He must have looked earnest enough. Skinner nodded toward the machine irritably, watching as Mulder dialed Scully's number.

"Scully?" Mulder sounded a little too solicitous. "I'm in Assistant Director Skinner's office. He wants to know what we've found out about Sal's case. No. We'll come over there." This last he said with a curiously pleading look toward Skinner, who nodded, puzzled. "We'll be over in a few minutes."

* * *

Skinner was truly annoyed by the time they reached Scully's apartment. Mulder had put off his questions for entirely too long. When Scully opened the door, dressed in jeans and a long-sleeved pullover, he was beyond ready for some answers.

"Hello, sir."

Skinner had to admit, though, that Scully looked a little off. She was too pale, for one, and her eyes were... haunted. He might almost have said she looked shell-shocked.

"Agent Scully," he answered quietly, as she motioned for them to sit down. She shot a questioning look at her partner. Skinner saw Mulder shake his head slightly, saw Scully sigh.

The young woman sat down immediately, letting out an exhausted little breath as she settled on the couch. Her partner sat next to her, almost hovering. _What the_ hell _is going on here?_ Skinner wondered, a bit concerned now, standing in front of them.

Given the scene before him, his voice held less annoyance than it might have. "So why are we here, Agent Mulder?"

The younger man glanced at his partner, inviting her to answer. Scully looked up at her AD, holding his eyes. "I guess you're here to see this, sir." She kept her face completely calm, wincing only slightly as she pushed her sleeves up over her wrists.

Skinner glanced at them, took a longer look, and sat down heavily, seeking her eyes. "Scully..."

She dropped her eyes, raising them again as Mulder said quickly, "She didn't do this to herself, sir."

Skinner looked up at him, anger plain on his face. "Who--"

Mulder held up a hand. "I should say she didn't _cut_ herself. I was in the room, sir. There was no blade." He held up under Skinner's questioning glare. "The wounds appear to be psychosomatic."

Skinner looked back at Scully's wrists. The bandages were new, but they had already begun to stain from the half-healed wounds. "Mulder," he said doubtfully, "a slashed wrist is hardly psychosomatic." He looked askance at Scully, who had colored slightly.

She smiled back wanly, her voice firm. "It appears to be a sort of hysterically induced hemorrhage."

He frowned. "Like stigmata?"

She nodded, the doctor gladly taking over so she could hide behind the medical terms for what had happened to her. "In certain states of high stress, it's theorized that the human body can actually spontaneously break down its own cellular structure." She smiled wryly. "Given the evidence, I would have to say it's more than a theory."

Skinner just stared. Scully's face, her hands, were just as white as the bandages, making the brownish-red stains stand out all the more. He shuddered mightily. "This is what happened to May?"

Mulder nodded. "Apparently, sir."

"What does this have to do with the house?"

Scully dove into the story before Mulder could open his mouth. She felt the need to erase Skinner's look of disbelief. More than that, she felt the need to push away the pity she saw there.  
The situation made her furious: She had _not_ tried to kill herself, yet she would defy anyone to make any other assessment of the situation. She looked down at her wrists as she talked, glancing up at her superior as she told the more unbelievable parts of it.

This time, on this case, she didn't try to explain it. She just told him everything that had happened from the moment she got Sal's phone call the previous Friday.

Skinner listened quietly, asking one or two questions along the way. As strange, as unbelievable, as it sounded, he believed her. There was just too much evidence before him. He stood up abruptly as she finished. She had been exhausted by just fifteen minutes' conversation.

"I'm sorry, Agent Scully," he said softly. "You're obviously tired."

She shook her head, but he noticed that her hands were shaking, too. "No, sir. I just wanted you to know what happened." She frowned slightly. "Sal needs to know that you'll believe her."

He smiled slightly. He was genuinely fond of Scully. She was a strong, capable agent with a good heart. And she reminded him of May. He sighed as he thought of how he would tell May's father. _I guess I'll just start with the truth and go from there._

He snorted ruefully. "I have to figure out how I'm going to explain all of this to May's father." He smiled again. "Mike's not a big believer in the unbelievable." He stood taller, heading for the door. "Let me know what else you find out, Agent Mulder." At the door, he turned back to Scully, his voice surprisingly gentle. "Get better, Scully."

"Thank you, sir." She saved her incredulous smile until he closed the door behind him.

Mulder smiled back. "Think maybe Skinner's got a crush on you?"

"If he does, he can go rob another cradle," she quipped faintly.

"He's not _that_ old, Scully."

"No," she said, trying to push herself up off the couch and falling back with a sigh. "But he's too senior officer." She glared up at Mulder, hovering. "Oh, go away, Mulder. There is nothing wrong with me that a couple of days' rest won't cure."

He didn't buy that for a minute. "You should have stitches, you know."

She surveyed her blood-stained bandages. "I don't think so," she lied, lying back and closing her eyes for a moment.

It wasn't five minutes before she was asleep.

* * *

She woke up eight hours later, feeling almost rested as she sat up in the early twilight. She looked around the bedroom, a little confused. "Mulder?" There, she thought. That sounded much better. Almost strong. Almost Scully.

Mulder poked his head in the door, sheepish. "Sorry. You looked like you were finally going to sleep for a while, and I didn't want you to wake up with a sore neck."

She smiled at his thoughtfulness, then frowned suddenly. "I'm hungry."

He smiled, stepping into the room and offering her a hand. "I have just the thing."

"What is it?" she asked, wary. "Hamburgers and fries?"

"Would have been," he admitted jokingly, "but all you had was rabbit food, and I'm out of cash."

She was surprised to find a plate of pasta and a spinach salad waiting at the table. "Since when did you know the difference between spinach and houseplants?"

"I took it out of that pot by the sink," he replied, mock-defensive.

She smiled appreciatively and dug into the meal. She really was starving.

"Skinner called while you were 'out,' " he said, shamelessly punning. Just watching her attack that salad made him feel better. "Sal's doing a lot better. I think he even managed to convince her father that she was telling the truth."

"Only Skinner could accomplish that," she snorted. "Michael Menschner is the world's finest Doubting Thomas."

"Second only to you?" Mulder teased.

She was up to the banter now, and it felt good to trade jabs with him. "I have to be good, to counter you." Scully sat back from the meal, a little surprised by her own voracity. Still, she did feel better. "I need to go see her," she said, holding his stare. " _After_ we get some answers."

Mulder dropped his eyes. "We know enough, Scully. We don't have to do this."

She looked up at him, calm. " _I_ do, Mulder."

He shook his head. "Maybe there's something in the local hospital records. We can search them before..."

She stood up almost defiantly. "Mulder, I don't think we're going to find anything that way." It was strange to have to play the role of believer, but she needed to know what had really happened in that house. Now, more than ever. "This is the only way we'll know."

He sat down. "Scully," he began quietly. "I don't think dream recall will work again. And I'm _not_ taking you back to that house."

She didn't like the possessive note in his voice, but she let it go for now. "Hypnosis, then."

He shook his head vehemently. "No. That would be even more dangerous." He looked up at her, willing her to understand, trying, for once, to be the skeptic. The cautious one. "I don't think I'd even try it in your condition."

She bristled. "I'm not dying, Mulder. As a doctor, I certify that I am well enough to undergo this procedure."

He met her gaze evenly. "And as a psychologist, I say you're not." 

She tried to stare him down for a moment. It was like staring down a rock. "Damn it, Mulder," she finally said quietly, sinking into her chair. "Why won't you help me with this?" Her temper flared weakly. "You go off on every hare-brained scheme that comes into your head, and, just this once--just because it's _me_ \--you refuse."

"Because I know the risks involved, Scully," he said gently. "Hypnosis requires that I bring you back into the dream. I can screen you from it, detach you from it, but only slightly." He stood firm. "What happened before could happen again, and I won't..." He took a deep breath. "I won't do that to you again."

She sat silently for a moment, staring at the empty plate in front of her, before she stood abruptly and walked into the kitchen. Mulder heard her take a glass from the cupboard, heard the water running. He looked up as she stood in the doorway.

"Mulder," she said thoughtfully. "Have you ever thought that it's the _house_ that causes the terror?"

He shook his head. He was too tired to have this argument. So was she, by the look of her.

"Have you noticed that I haven't even dreamed since I left that house?" she tried again. "Wouldn't it be safer here, when I'm in my own home?" 

He looked at her, seeing the lurking fear in her eyes, the exhaustion in her figure. "No, Scully," he said quietly. He straightened up, trying a different tack. "What do you remember of the dream?"

She sipped the water thoughtfully. "A lot, actually. At least from the beginning of it." She stood there, thinking. "The woman is standing by the stove."

"Gas, or electric?" 

Scully frowned. "Gas, I think. Old... but it looks new. She has the kettle on the stove, the cupboard in front of her is open. There are... jams? Canned fruit, maybe, in the cupboard." She sat down on the edge of the chair before her. "There's a toaster... one of those old ones with the rounded top."

"1950s?" he ventured.

She thought about that. "Early fifties, maybe. She's standing there, and she hears the front door open. It's squeaky. She keeps a bat in the closet--the pantry, I guess--in the kitchen. The phone is on the stairs. He's in the living room, which is on the other side of the stairs, so she tries to get to the phone before he hears her..."

"Then what?" Mulder prompted quietly.

She frowned again. "I don't know." She shook her head angrily. "I don't know, Mulder. She tries to get to the phone and something happens." She looked up at him. "This isn't going to work."

He persevered. "Does she live alone?"

"Yes," she answered immediately.

"How old is she?"

She paused. "Sal's age," she said uncertainly. "Maybe older."

"What's her name?"

She shook her head, thought about it, shook it again. "I don't know."

Mulder stood up, going to her computer and logging on to the FBI mainframe. He typed quietly for a few minutes, then sat back. "If we can find out who owned the house in the early fifties, maybe that will give us a clue to what happened."

She shook her head, rising to stand behind him. "She probably didn't even own the house, Mulder. If she was a working woman living alone, she was probably renting. How could a woman her age afford to own a house back then?"

"I don't know," he said. "Daddy, maybe?"

"Maybe." She rubbed her eyes, heading for the couch.

"Get some sleep," he suggested. "This might take a while, and I don't want to hear you complaining about a stiff neck when you wake up."

She stared back at him for a moment, then sighed, stretching carefully. "You better go home soon," she jabbed feebly, heading for the bedroom again. "My neighbors are going to start to talk."

* * *

It was three a.m. before the computer gave up any information. Mulder rose quietly, heading toward the bedroom door. He was nearly there, when he heard something. He leaned against the door jamb, listening.

She was crying. It was quiet--not sobbing, just crying. He knocked. "Scully?"

It took her a moment, but she managed to answer in a reasonable tone of voice. "Yeah?"

"Can I come in?"

A pause. "I'm really tired, Mulder."

He stood there a second, debating. "Are you okay?"

"Fine," she lied, sitting in the dark. She had woken to silence, and the terror of what had happened, suddenly, without warning, had overwhelmed her. "I just need to get some more sleep."  
She could hear him at the door, could almost see him ready to enter. "I'm okay," she repeated.

He stood silently for a long moment, just listening. "Scully?" he called again.

"What?" she replied irritably.

"Can I come in? Please?"

She slid her feet to the ground, pulling on her sweatpants. He wasn't going to leave her alone. She sighed as she flicked on the light beside her. "Fine. Come in."

He closed the door behind him, slipping into the chair beside the bed. "What's going on, Scully?"

She almost resented the Psychologist’s Tone. Almost. Maybe a little psychology was just what she needed right now. She wasn't used to being so affected by things. She wasn't used to being the one who needed comforting.

"This wasn't..." she began, not knowing how to end it. She laughed weakly. "Things like this just don't happen, Mulder."

He nodded quietly, letting her figure out where to go with this.

"I had a friend in high school." She picked listlessly at the bandages. "Karen Bishette. She was beautiful, and popular, and smart." Scully looked away at nothing. "She killed herself when she was sixteen. No note, no explanation." She closed her eyes. "Just a razor in her bathroom."

She looked at him, tears threatening. "The woman in that house, Mulder... I need to know what happened." She sniffed, heading off the threat. "I _need_ to."

Mulder just put a hand on her knee, and nodded.

* * *

"Scully?"

"Yes?"

"I want you to view the dream as if it were a movie you were watching. You aren't connected to it, Scully. You're only narrating it for me. Do you understand?"

"Yes."

"Okay." He pushed the tape recorder across the living room table, closer to her. "Start the movie, Scully. What do you see?"

"She's making tea in the kitchen."

"Who is she?"

"Belle."

"Belle who?"

"...Just Belle."

"What does the room look like? Describe everything you can see." Maybe something there could give him a clue about the woman.

"There's jam in the cupboard in front of her. Her father travels, and he always brings her back a jar from wherever he's gone. There's a china doll on the window sill. It's got a little blue dress with patent leather shoes. The toaster's broken. Dad was supposed to come over and fix it, but he had to leave town again." Her tone had become suddenly petulant.

"Scully," he warned sharply. "It's a movie. You're not involved."

She nodded, her voice regaining its detached monotone. "There's a sampler on the wall. She did it when she was eight. It was her first needlework."

Mulder sat back slightly. This wasn't a dream--it was _memory._ He leaned forward again, stepping carefully. "What happens next, Scully?"

"She hears a noise. The door creaking. She's sure she locked it." She tensed. "He's in the house."

"Who?"

She shook her head. "Someone." The movie played silently in her head for a time.

"What happens next?" he prodded gently.

"He's in the living room. Hunting." A little smirk of approval, of control, pure Scully, came over her face. "She's got the bat."

Mulder was vaguely reassured by this manifestation of Scully's natural character. Hypnotic dream work often threatened to drag the patient back into the nightmare. If he could keep her distanced, she would be all right.

"Where is the intruder now?"

"Still in the living room. She's trying to get to the phone. She doesn't think he hears her."

Mulder let the silent movie run for a few moments, before prompting her again. "Has she got to the phone?"

Scully nodded. "She's calling--" She broke off suddenly, jerking back from whatever it was she saw. Her breathing quickened.

"Scully," Mulder said quietly, trying to calm her down, wondering if he should just bring her out now. "You're not part--"

She screamed--a short bark of terror. No time to pull her out. "Scully, what's happening?"

Her hands gripped an unseen weapon, wielding it against a hidden assailant. "Stay away! Stay away from me!"

_Damn it, no!_

Mulder almost shouted at her, afraid she wouldn't listen, afraid he wouldn't be able to bring her out. "Scully! Scully, listen to me! When I count to three, you'll come out of the dream, do you hear me? You'll be out of it."

He counted. Her eyes flew open, but she wasn't seeing him, wasn't seeing anything around her. She could only see the movie in her mind.

He stood carefully, came up close, not touching her. "Scully?" he called gently. She wasn't in the dream anymore, but she couldn't let go of what she'd seen. "Scully, talk to me. Talk to me. Tell me what happened."

She sat staring, crying silently, absolutely still. Her eyes were slowly regaining their focus. "He raped her," she said quietly, suddenly shaking herself apart, as the fear of it took her again. "He raped her."

Mulder placed a hand on her back, flinching as she struck him and jerked away. He stood, started pacing as she slowly composed herself. He stopped when he realized that she had been sitting quietly, watching him, for more than a minute.

"This is over," he said, examining her pale, glistening face and shaking hands.

"No," she said angrily. "That's not the end of it. Something else happened. There _has_ to be something more there."

"We'll find out some other way, Scully."

"How?" she demanded, a little petulantly.

He looked desperate at that. "I don't know. We'll go back and look at the police reports again--"

"She didn't report it, Mulder," she said, picking viciously at the bandages.

"There'll be hospital records---something," he offered, exasperated--and scared. He dropped down next to her on the couch, silent for a moment, just watching her shake. "Can you make it to the bedroom?" he whispered finally.

She looked up sharply. "Why?"

"Because I don't want to have to carry you again if I don't have to," he said firmly, lightly taking hold of her arm, his free hand resting on her back.

She jerked out of his grip, anger alone pulling her to her feet. "We're going to finish this now, Mulder."

He shook his head, standing to face her. "I won't do it."

"Why not?"

"Scully!" He gestured to her trembling hands, as if they were answer enough. 

She turned away, paced to the end of the couch, turned back. "You just won't help me on this. Why? I _have_ to know the truth."

He shook his head. "Not this truth, Scully. Not this way."

She ignored her tears. "Why?" she repeated quietly.

"Because this is going to kill you, Scully," he said gently.

Her head jerked up. That was ridiculous.

She wouldn't...

She'd never...

"I saw you with Skinner, Scully," Mulder whispered quietly. "You knew you hadn't done that to yourself, but somewhere inside, you weren't sure." He moved closer, resisting the urge to tilt her head up so she would meet his eyes. "That was _her,_ Scully. I don't know what's happening here, but I know we can't finish this." He did finally touch her chin--just touched it. "You're not her, but if we keep going, you'll come to believe you are."

She stood there, trying to deny what he had said, what she knew was happening. She stood there, and the Belle inside her cried.

* * *

It was after eleven the next morning when Scully finally woke. She felt better somehow, like a rock had been lifted off of her.

Mulder was right, she thought. This is getting to me way too much. She sat up, sitting quietly on the edge of her bed, examining her wrists. The bandages were rumpled from sleep, browned by blood. She sighed. Hopefully they would heal a little before her mother decided to have another one of her Motherly instincts and drop by ("Just to say Hi, honey. And see how you're doing."). It would be too scandalous that her little girl had tried--

Scully closed her eyes, squeezing her fists until her wrists started throbbing again. "Dana Scully," she said sternly, "you _did not_ try to kill yourself."

She almost believed it.

 _Maybe I'm not feeling that much better._ She pulled herself out of bed, walking past the bathroom, where she could hear the shower running, making her way to the couch, where she'd left her first aid kit. She was going to run out of bandages at this rate. It seemed like these things just weren't going to heal. She shuddered at the thought of what the scars would look like.

She thought about the last few days as she carefully pulled the old gauze off of her wrists. This was all way beyond her. She had seen--had felt--a lot of things in her life, but this? It was like, half the time she was herself, she knew what had happened. And half the time... She sighed. _Half the time, I think I'm living in 1953._

She stopped unrolling the gauze. 1953. How did she know the date? She sat for a minute, the old gauze wrapped half around her hand, half around the other wrist. Belle... Belle... She couldn't see the name--not clearly. Thirty-three, rich... Belle...

Belle Cattron. She sat back in amazement. She didn't know how she knew, but she knew. She wrapped the bandage carelessly back around her wrist, and went to the computer.

Mulder still had the information on the house up on the screen. It had been bought by Henry Cattron in 1949. Her father. He was a salesman for a new radio firm, travelling all around the world, bringing her gifts to make up for the fact that he was rarely there for her as she grew up. He sold it in 1953. _Just after she died, I'll bet._

She jotted down the information, then cleared the machine for another query.

> SEARCH: Person  
>  NAME: Cattron  
>  ADDITIONAL: Belle

She sat for a few minutes, knowing it would take longer, but loathe to move just yet. She rubbed absently at the loose bandage on her left wrist, feeling that little sting of running over a raw scar. _Might as well change these while I'm waiting._ She moved back to the couch, still hearing the water running in the bathroom. _Is he going to use_ all _my hot water?_

She wadded up the used gauze, tossing it on the table, steeling herself to look at the wound. What she saw made her stop. It made her stop and bring her wrist to her face and take a deep, shuddering breath.

The wounds were healing. Of course, a wound will always heal, given enough time, but these looked like they were two weeks old. She stared some more, realizing that she had not really looked at them before. She had only changed the dressings once herself, and she had been asleep when Mulder had changed them yesterday.

She ran her mind back through all that she knew about stigmata. There was a seemingly direct correlation between mental state and the regeneration of hemorrhaged tissue. Seemingly. She sat back suddenly, and laughed. "I'm my own worst nightmare."

"I thought I held that distinction," Mulder said, walking in from the bathroom. He wore the crumpled suit that had been fresh the day before, and his wet hair stuck straight up.

She raised her wrist to him for his inspection, unasked for laughter bubbling up again. She smiled broadly, asking him to believe the unbelievable that she suddenly, willingly embraced. "It's a miracle."

He looked down at her face, far too concerned, and then at her wrist. "What happened?" he asked, staring from her face to her arm.

"I don't know, Mulder," she laughed, a little hysterically now. "I don't know, but at least I'm not going crazy."

Mulder didn't know if that was true or not. She looked suddenly too flushed, laughing on the verge of a major breakdown. "Scully? Scully, stop it. Come on, we've got to figure this out."

She sobered at that, staring at her wrist while she moved to take off the other bandage. This was too too much for her. She wasn't Alice. She couldn't believe three impossible things before breakfast. She just didn't believe. Didn't really want to, actually.

"Mulder, I don't want to figure it out. I don't want it ever to have happened at all." The breakdown came now, but it was quiet. Silent tears ran down her cheeks--relief that this was finally starting to be over, fear that she would lose her mind before it was.

"Scully..." Mulder didn't really know what to say. _I don't think we ever covered this in Psych class._

She looked up at him, forcefully resigning herself to just dealing with it. _I've dealt with everything else that's happened since I met Mulder._ "Her name is Belle Cattron."

Mulder nodded, glancing over to the computer, only now realizing that it was running another search. He walked over to it just as it beeped smugly. "Scully, come here."

She dragged herself off the couch, came around to stand over him.

"Maybelle Cattron," Mulder said with a grimace. "Boy, her parents must have hated her even more than mine did me."

"Her parents loved her, Mulder. They just were never around to show it." She ignored his startled glance. She did not want to discuss how she knew that, just wanted to find out the whole truth, deliver it to Sal, explain it to Skinner, and then forget it.

Mulder went on. "Died at age thirty-three." He looked up. "Says she died of a fever."

Scully shook her head. "Her father was rich. Probably didn't want to shame the family."

Mulder turned around to face her. "Do you want to talk about this?"

"No, Mulder," she said wearily. "I don't. Whatever else that session last night proved, it proved that her whole... memory... was in that dream." She quietly studied her shoes. "It just took a little while for me to remember it all."

Mulder smiled lightly. She was coming around, now. This whole thing had shaken her--had scared the Hell out of _him_ \--but she would deal with it now. He smiled bigger.

"It's kind of like a past life experience, huh, Scully?"

She glared at him. "Mulder, if you--" She was cut off by the ringing of her phone.

"Scully," she said shortly.

"Hey, Quincy?" Johnny Bottoms sounded slightly hurt by her angry tone. "Dat you?"

She smiled in spite of herself. Johnny took every harsh word, whether directed at him or not, as a personal affront. "Hi, Johnny. What's going on?"

"Well now, you gotta come see, Quince. Dis, you ain't gonna believe."

She smiled slyly, exchanging a look with her partner. "Let me guess... Spontaneous regeneration?"

Johnny was silent for a moment. "You got more than just the Luck, _cherie,_ " he said quietly. "You spooky."

She almost laughed. "No, _he's_ Spooky." She ignored the look on Mulder's face. "I'll be down as soon as I can, Johnny. First, I have to finish an argument with my partner."

* * *

_The End_


End file.
